Attic Theory
by dislocation
Summary: "Care to explain why you broke out of your rehab facility the same day you were being released?" "Bored." "You were bored?" "No, I am bored. Right now. Happens often; you'll get used to it." AU Fem!Sherlock.


**A/N: Just an idea I had while listening to Elementary's opening theme (and might or might not have been prancing around in my room to the music, pretending to be the infamous detective because Jonny Lee Miller does a spectacular job of playing him). Anyways, this is the outcome even if I'm still not sure how to feel about it, or where it will go - if it will even sprout legs in the first place. Enjoy.  
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Elementary or the characters.**

* * *

_'It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.'_

* * *

**PILOT**

She knew she had to wake up early that morning. _Today's the day_, as they say. But as the first of the alarm clocks bleared, startling her awake, Joan Watson barely moved, her hand reaching out from under the covers and slammed it into silence with the palm of her hand. She turned over so the sunlight, drifting in through the parted curtains, fell onto her eyes. She was almost dreaming again when the second alarm clock blared – much louder than the first. She groaned, but rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, gripped the covers in one hand and threw them off.

Seven am. As she rose from the bed and pulled on her jogging clothes, she kept her eyes on the clock. She had an hour before she had to be in a shower. Hooking the earphones around her neck and over her ears, stepping out of her apartment, she allowed herself a short moment to appreciate the ordered schedule of the break between the clients. Because today she will be meeting with a new one and she highly doubted, from experience, that 'order' will be a big part of the next six weeks.

With music blaring in her ears and her feet pounding against the pavement, Joan barely noticed the people she passed, her gaze focused in front of her. She ran past the people heading to their jobs, across the street and past the tourists, students and families in the central park where she rested against the tall iron gate and allowed herself a short break before continuing.

She had barely pulled open the door to her building, still short of breath from her run, when her cell phone rang. She paused the music, pulling the mobile out of the pocket of her hoodie, and answered the call.

"Hello?.. Yeah, I'm coming to get him in—" She froze, the soft ding of the elevator muffling half of what was said on the other side of the line. "I'm sorry, did you say he escaped?"

* * *

Dressed for the day's work, Joan Watson slammed the door to her car shut and with the phone to her ear, walked to her client's address – her home for the next six weeks. Admittedly, she had to resist the urge to dress smarter, an old habit of wanting to make a good impression getting in the way, but she managed to choose comfortable clothes. She knew it would put the new client at ease - she didn't want to resemble a figure of authority.

"Hi, it's Joan Watson. On the off-chance you haven't already been contacted by Hemdale, your son left rehab a little early this morning." She rested against the pathway gate, her eyes on the window where she could see a woman, her bare back in full view as she put on a bra and disappeared further in the room. Slowly pushing the gate opened, she continued, "I'm already at his house to see if he's here. I'll call you if there's a problem."

Hanging up and keeping the phone in her hand just in case, she walked up the stairs, perking up when she saw a man in a buzz cut and dark clothes walk out of the Brownstone building, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. The sleeves of his black hoodie were rolled up and she could see tattoos covering his arms, extending past his wrists.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for-"

The man completely blanked her, walking past her and heading out through the gate which he lightly kicked open with his foot. Cracking his neck, the man straddled a motorbike parked just outside and drove off without even putting on a helmet, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Joan watched him go, a little worried – both at the rudeness of his passing-by and for his safety on the road – before she turned back to the building, finding the door already open. She did the courtesy of closing it after she was inside and was faced with a bare staircase at the end of the short hallway.

"Hello?" she called, but received no answer. Noticing multiple voices coming from the second floor, she didn't bother checking the rooms on the ground floor and headed straight up the stairs, her high heels surprisingly quiet on the wooden floor. When she approached the room – through the window of which she could see the young woman which she concluded must have still been inside – the voices were louder and louder and before she even stood in the hallway she could hear that it wasn't a group of people but instead, different television channels overlapping over one another.

Placing her phone in her bag, not bothering to zip it closed, she hesitated in the doorway when she laid eyes on the view inside. In front of the windows, on the ground, was an array of television screens, each showing a different program: from cooking to live news reports, to a man and a woman in what looked like a romantic TV series and next to it, an episode of a cartoon she couldn't recognise featuring a giant robot. A couple of more screens were propped on small stands.

And in front of all that, her back turned to her, stood the young woman she saw through the window. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a red bra, a thick watch around her right wrist and a TV remote in her left hand. There were tattoos on her back and her arms, littered messily around her skin and with no connection between each one. Her chin-length, light brown, slightly wavy hair was brushed to the side, the few strands that stuck out betraying her... recent activities.

Joan entered the room, walking around the woman as she spoke, "Uh, excuse me, Miss, could you tell me where to—"

She was cut off by the girl loudly shushing her, her head slightly turned to the side. Joan stopped, surprised, finishing her questions in a much quieter tone. "... Find Sherlock Holmes."

There was a tense, awkward silence – or at least it was on Joan's part – during which the girl continued to stare at the screens, barely moving. Then slowly, as if remembering a question was asked, she raised her right hand and stiffly pointed to herself before the limb fell back down to limply hang by her side.

The silence continued as Joan stared, the movement confusing her – did she mean for her to be quiet or... And then it clicked. Even though the television screens disguised it, she knew the rest of the large house was completely empty as she couldn't hear a single loitering footstep. The woman in front of her wasn't a girl who had just had, what she assumed to be, sexual intercourse with Sherlock Holmes. She _was_ Sherlock Holmes.

Only at that moment did she realise that Sherlock's father, her current employer, never mentioned her gender, instead of 'he' or 'she' choosing to use 'child' and the name 'Sherlock'. Joan assumed her client would be a man and didn't think twice.

Which is why she could only blink rapidly in surprise. Sherlock Holmes was a woman.

A small part of her reminded that it was an easy misconception to make but she didn't feel any less embarrassed. She had referred to Sherlock as 'he' the entire time. Why didn't any of them correct her?

Suddenly, as the woman's head snapped to the wall, all the screens were stopped with a single click of a button. She took in a deep breath and began to pace in front of the screens, silently muttering to herself and completely ignoring the other presence in the room.

Joan licked her lips and her hands brushed against her coat nervously. "Uh, my name is Joan Watson. I've been hired by your father to be your sober companion. He told me he was going to e-mail you about me." The woman never stopped pacing, glancing down at the closed pizza box on the chair with a look of discontent before turning around and stopping, looking at her bare feet. Joan took her silence as a cue to continue and she walked forward until she stood opposite Sherlock across the room. Almost hesitantly, the woman looked up. "I'm here to make the transition from your rehab experience to your everyday life as smooth as possible. So, I will be living with you for the next six weeks which means I'll be available to you 24/7."

The woman stared at her unblinkingly, waiting for Joan to finish. When she did, one of her eyebrows twitched upwards and her eyes widened, looking straight into Joan's. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" Joan could only open her mouth in surprise, nothing coming out. "I know what you're thinking. The world is a cynical place and I must be a cynical woman, thinking one like you would fall for a line like that. Thing is... it isn't a line." Keeping eye-contact with Joan, the woman inched closed slowly, her words slow and smooth. She inched even closer and Joan could see that she was a couple inches taller than her - even with Joan wearing heels. "So please hear me when I say this: I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment."

Joan stared up at her wide-eyed, genuinely lost for words, not realising that the woman's hand had moved around her and her index finger pressed the button.

_"Do you believe in first sight?"_

Joan dropped her bag, the contents spilling open, as she turned to the television screen in front of her in surprise. It was the one with the man and woman on screen and romantic, string music echoed throughout the room.

_"I know what you're thinking. The world is a cynical place and I must be a cynical man, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. Thing is... it isn't a line."_

Glancing at the woman, whose eyes were on the screen, Joan bent down to put her personal belonging that have poured out onto the floor, back into her bag. Sherlock watched her, her eyes drinking in the little details that were revealed from inside the bag but by the time Joan stood to her full height, cradling her bag to her chest, she was looking at the screen again, her lips moving along with the words that were said.

_"So please hear me when I say this: I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment."_

The moment the line was finished, the show was paused, the remote was dropped on the floor and she turned to Joan abruptly. "Woman, man – same thing," she disregarded the small mistake with a wave of her hand before extending it to the other person in the room. "Spot on, wouldn't you say." She sounded proud, although her facial expression didn't show it as she introduced herself, "Sherlock Holmes." When Joan hesitantly shook her hand, her eyebrows rose. "What's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing," Joan refused to show that she was uncomfortable - and still utterly shocked - and shook the woman's hand with a confident grip.

Sherlock saw right through her. "You assumed from my name that I'd be a man – don't feel embarrassed, it's a common mistake." She gave her a smile devoid of emotion and then dropped her hand, brushing past her into a different room. "Please don't get comfortable; we won't be here long."

Joan gaped, before following her as the woman strolled down the stairs and into what looked like a study room. "Miss Holmes, did your father tell you about me or not?"

"Uh... He e-mailed." She found Sherlock bent under a table, mismatched socks on her feet as she picked up a heavy shoe and plopped down on a soft stool, putting it on. "Said to expect some sort of addict-sitter."

"Then he explained his conditions with respect to your sobriety..." Joan assumed, her bag on her shoulder, approaching Sherlock as she wrapped the shoelaces around her ankle twice before tying the knot.

She tapped her foot against the floor and picked up the second shoe. "If you mean his threat to evict me from this, the shoddiest and the least renovated of the five, count them, _five_ properties he owns in New York, then yeah, he made his _conditions_ quite clear. I use, I wind up on the street. I refuse your quote-unquote help, I wind up on the street." Joan gave her a pointed look, one that Sherlock ignored as she glanced up, tying her second shoe in the same way she did the first. "It was my understanding, most sober companions are recovering addicts themselves, but you've never had a problem with drugs or alcohol before."

Joan was caught off-guard by the change of subject and it took her a while to make a comment, "You're father told you that."

"Of course he didn't," Sherlock retorted, standing up and stalking over to a different room, heading straight for an armchair and a pile of boxes by the tall window.

Joan took in a deep breath to control herself. The woman was hard to keep up with - physically and mentally. The sight of the cardboard boxes reminded her why she wasn't supposed to be at Brownstone yet, in the first place.

"Care to explain why you broke out of your rehab facility the same day you were being released?"

"Bored," came the simple, nonchalant reply.

Watson blinked. "You were bored?"

"No, I_ am_ bored. Right now. Happens often; you'll get used to it." Sherlock rummaged through a bag of what clearly was dirty laundry, throwing her a short glance over her shoulder. "Regarding our mutual friends at Hemdale - I'd say they should be thanking me for exposing the flaws in their rubbish security system, wouldn't you?" Finally, she pulled out a yellow t-shirt and sniffed at it. "Excellent." She proceeded to put it on.

Watson stared before shaking her head, clearing her throat. "There was a man leaving just as I got here. Did he get you high?"

Sherlock gave her somewhat of a smirk and walked over to the ladder where on one of the rungs, hung a belt and a pair of handcuffs beside it. "About six feet," she said with a telling smile as she looped the belt through her jeans. Joan looked away. "Victor. Nice chap. On the quiet side – we have an arrangement. Honestly? I actually find that sex is repellent - all those fluids and odd sounds - but my body and brain require it to function at optimal levels. And so I... 'feed' them as needed." She secured the belt and looked Joan up and down. "You're a doctor you understand."

Joan looked taken aback again, but covered it quicker that time, with a small chuckle. "I'm not a doctor."

"_Were_ a doctor. Surgeon, judging by your hands."

Joan was speechless. She looked down at her hands as Sherlock picked up a white button-up shirt from the mantelpiece over the fireplace and was off again, pacing as she pulled it on and buttoned it, stuffing it into her jeans. She was oblivious to Joan's discomfort. "If your car parked nearby?"

"Yes, it's just outside," Joan nodded, turning to walk towards her and jabbing her thumb towards the street that could be seen through the window. She blinked, confused again. "Wait, how did you know I had a car?"

"Parking ticket," Sherlock shrugged, picking up a black coat and putting it on as she faced Joan. "Fell out of your purse when you dropped it. Can't have one without the other, can you?" She sighed, pulling on the sleeves with a small frown. "We need to get going. We're late."

Joan shifted on her feet. "Late for what?"

With a groan, Sherlock ignored her question as she plucked a phone from the table and checked the screen, her fingers sliding across it a few times. "Actually, scratch the car. Manhattan bridge is down on a single lane. We'll take the tube instead." She stuffed her phone in one of the front pockets of her jeans and took a moment to look around, letting out a disgusted sound. "Look at this place. Yuck. Can't wait for you to tidy it."

* * *

When they finally made it to the tube – standing even though there were a couple of seat available – Sherlock rocked on her heels as she held onto the metal post and bit the inside of her cheek. A black and red scarf adorned her neck, barely loose enough so as to not cut off her breathing.

"So... Sherlock," Joan began, still wanting to know where it was that they rushed off to. 'Manhattan Bridge' was awfully vague.

However, the way Joan said her name, made Sherlock let out a laugh. "You think that's bad? I was going to be named 'Sherringford' at one point. Imagine the horror."

Watson frowned, her original question forgotten. "How come you were named 'Sherlock'?" It was an unusual name – let alone for a woman.

"My father—" She said it so bitterly Joan's eyebrows rose. "—fancied himself somewhat of a prophet when it came to guessing the sex of the foetus before they are born. He was rather shocked when he found out I was a girl – a mistake he hadn't made before or since in that particular area, though I do believe he remains somewhat bitter about it."

Watson was silent, thoughtful. "You didn't think about changing it? I mean, you must have been teased at school."

Sherlock nodded nonchalantly. "Oh yeah, terribly."

Joan rolled her eyes and then gave Sherlock a pointed look, wanting for the woman to answer _why _they were on the tube. Sherlock glanced down at her and cocked an eyebrow before releasing a heavy breath and straightening her back. "Prior to my stint in 'junkie jail', I worked as a consultant at Scotland Yard."

Watson nodded, lightly swaying as the tube picked up speed. "Your father told me. He said you were a detective..?"

"I was a consultant," Sherlock corrected. "I wasn't paid for my services and therefore I answered to no one but myself." She sounded very proud when she said it, moving to stand by the exit doors when they neared the station they had to exit at.

Just as they stepped onto the platform, the voice over the intercom announcing the next time a tube would stop, Joan's phone rang. She checked the caller I.D. before declining the call. Not quickly enough for Sherlock not to notice.

"What about London?" she asked, pocketing the phone.

Sherlock raised her eyebrows as they made their way towards the stairs to the street above. "What about it?"

"He told me that's where you bottomed out. He thinks something terrible happened to you there, he just doesn't know what—"

"Handsome woman, your mother," Sherlock interrupted her, her pace quickening. "Very big of her to take your father back after the affair."

For a short moment Joan was silent, then, "How could you possibly know about the—"

She didn't finish her sentence when Sherlock made no suggestion that she was going to answer.

They left the underground station and ran up the stairs, Sherlock taking two of them at a time. Joan caught up with her and soon they were walking side by side again, nearing the street of their destination.

After turning another corner, Joan couldn't take it anymore. "You know, you still haven't told me where we're going yet."

"About that. I think you and my father will be pleased to hear that I've devised a post-rehab regimen for myself that will keep me quite busy. I've decided to resume my work as a consultant here in New York."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together as they stopped in front of a tall building outside of which stood multiple police cars. A uniformed officer stood on the inside of the police tape, trying to keep the few reporters a safe distance away.

Joan trailed after Sherlock as she strolled over to the tape, heading towards a group of plain-clothed detectives huddled closely together. But just before the yellow tape she turned to Watson with a question. "Tell me. How do your clients typically introduce you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I find it hard to believe they'd actually tell people they'd been assigned a glorified 'helper monkey'."

Watson stared. "'Helper monkey'?" That's a new one. "You and I have what's known as 'companion/client confidentiality' which means you can introduce me however you'd like – friend, relative, co-worker – and I'll play along. But to be honest, most clients call me their companion."

She explained it in such a calm manner that it almost irked Sherlock. The consultant mulled over her words. Interesting. Then she nodded and turned to the group of detectives. "Captain Gregson?"

"Ah, Holmes," a man in his early fifties greeted Sherlock, walking over to them and lifting the tape over his head as he did so. He laughed and shook the woman's hand with a small smile. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock returned the smile to the man before turning to the woman next to her. "Ms. Watson, meet Captain Gregson. Captain Gregson, meet Ms. Watson, my..." She dropped the man's arm and hesitated for a moment before finishing the introductions with, "personal valet." Joan gave Sherlock a sharp look before forcing a dry smile on her lips.

"She waits outside," Captain Gregson says, out of protocal.

"I'm afraid she's quite crucial to my process, Captain," Sherlock protested to the man who was already walking away and wavered in his step, turning to look at them over his shoulder at the consultant's words.

"It's okay. Really," Watson assured both of them, perfectly happy to stay outside.

"Actually it isn't," Sherlock said to her pointedly. Gregson looked between the two curiously before his attention was diverted by a detective with a phone to his ear. "At least not according to my father's e-mails. He explained it's the job of a proper 'valet' to accompany his or her charge to their place of business. Well, consider _this_ my place of business. Consider the _coroner's office_ my place of business. Consider every wretched hive of depravity and murder in this _city_ my place of business. Unless, of course, you don't think you have the stomach for what I do."

Joan nodded, not in the least bit intimidated. "I'm good."

Gregson had returned to them and handed her a pair of blue latex gloves. "Can you put these gloves on, please?"

Joan did, and Sherlock blew into her own, white pair and the two of them followed Captain Gregson into the million-dollar house.

"Dr. Richard Mantlo came home a few hours ago to find his door kicked in and his wife missing." He pointed to the splintered doorframe near the lock before beckoning them further and pointing to a man in a dark, grey suit and glasses who was being questioned in the other room. "That's Mantlo, over there," he said to Sherlock who was peeking around the officer just as Dr. Mantlo glanced up. "Says he called in on emergency last night and didn't get home 'til five a.m. Saw the front door, called 911." Gregson turned to look behind him as another uniformed-officer entered the room and Joan followed him with her eyes while Sherlock waited patiently for the captain to continue, busying herself with pulling out her phone and taking photos of the bootprint left by the invader. "First officers on the scene found signs of a struggle in the kitchen and in the master bedroom. But no Miss Dampier."

Sherlock looked up from her phone. "Ransom demand?" Gregson shook his head. Sherlock considered that for a moment before moving past him into the living room. The house looked as expensive as it did from the outside, with expensive furniture, paintings and fresh flowers in every single one of the vases. Sherlock looked around silently, manoeuvring between the officers on the scene and biting her lip deep in thought.

Gregson followed her into the room, giving her a questioning look. "What is it?"

"Ah, I'm not sure," Sherlock muttered, walking over to the window and then sharply turning to inspect the pictures in the frames hung on the wall. Then after a moment, she turned to Captain Gregson. "Miss Dampier's cell phone. Have you recovered it?"

"Can we have her cell phone?" the captain called to one of the detectives and no longer than a moment later he was given a plastic evidence bag which he immediately passed on to Sherlock. "Thank you, Detective."

Joan watched, curious, as Sherlock opened the evidence bag and pulled out the cell phone, flipping through the photos labelled 'favourite' in the photo album. She hummed to herself and then glanced at the photos on the wall, comparing them.

"Hm," Sherlock frowned down at the phone as she moved to stand between Joan and Gregson, still looking through the photos. "She either lost a tremendous amount of weight or underwent significant plastic surgery sometime in the last two years.

Joan tilted her head to the side. "She looks the same in all the photos."

"That's my point." Sherlock lowered the phone and walked back to the frames on the wall, motioning to them as she pointed them out to the captain. "Ovular frames are older. Been here longer – you can tell by the way the wall has faded." She was right – there were oval marks visible behind each rectangular frame where the old frames used to be. "Square frames, newer, now, the only ones that feature Miss Dampier. Coincidence? No." He strolled over back to Gregson. "Check her cell phone. No photos of her older than two years. But there are countless pictures of other people in her life as many as five years ago."

Joan watched as the consultant walked out of the room and paused over the carpet in the hall, after a second kneeling in front of it and leaning down to inspect it. Uniformed officers threw her curious looks but didn't intervene. "I take it you two have worked together before?" she asked Gregson who picked up the evidence bag Sherlock had discarded on the couch and stood next to her.

He nodded, somewhat fondly, "About ten years ago. Few months after 9/11, I was assigned to Scotland Yard to observe their counter-terrorist bureau." Joan leaned to the side and craned her neck, giving Sherlock a concerned look when the woman began to sniff the carpet. "Holmes mostly worked homicides – she was still a fresh face in the department back then – but, eh, our paths still crossed a few times." He smiled, recalling the memories of his time back in London and the eccentric consultant he had encountered. He watched, hardly surprised, as Sherlock abruptly rose to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen.

Joan nodded and was about to open her mouth to comment when a loud shout was heard from the kitchen, "Captain! If you please!"

Gregson walked over to the kitchen, Joan at his heels, and they found Sherlock inspecting the broken glass and the bloodstain on the floor while Detective Abreu stood there, taking notes and throwing the consultant confused glances over the top of his notebook.

"Yeah?"

"Miss Dampier knew her attacker. She let him into the house herself."

Detective Abreu stopped writing, chuckling at her words in disbelief. "Captain, who is this girl?"

Instead of throwing him a look of disdain – which is what Sherlock _really _wanted to do – she continued on with her explanation, ignoring him. "There are two broken glasses here. You can tell from the volume of shards. Obviously she was pouring a glass of water for her guest when he assailed her."

"Right," Abreu nodded sarcastically, closing his notebook shut. "Is that something you would do if some nut job comes in and kicks your door in; you ask him if he's thirsty?"

Not answering him, Sherlock dropped to her stomach on the floor and inspected something under the fridge. "Could I? Thank you..." Standing up, she practically stole the pen out of the detective's grip before dropping on the cold tiles again. Reaching under the fridge with the pen, she carefully pushed the shard of glass she found there into view. She rose to her feet, holding the shard up which they could see was round and thicker than the rest, slightly out of breath. "Base of glass number two." She set it down on the counter and then after returning the pen to Abreu, who was staring at her in surprise, she pulled out her own phone and thumbed through it before holding her phone out to Gregson who took it from her hands. "Take another glance at the bootprint on the front door. You see an almost imperceptible spot of blood where the heel made contact. Lab tests, I'm certain, will conclude it's the victim's blood. It can only have been left there after the assault had taken place. Miss Dampier let the man in because he was familiar to her. He kicked the door in as he exited to try to obscure this fact. Also, he took something from the living room."

Avoiding the glass, Sherlock gingerly moved to the living room and stopped directly in front of the fireplace, each of her hands outstretched towards either side of it as she pointed out the photographs she was inspecting to Gregson, Joan and Abreu as they piled into the room.

"Note the symmetry of the space? This wall," she indicated the left side, "is very nearly a reflection of that one. Pictures, pictures, knick-knacks, knick-knacks. I see balance everywhere. Except... " She moved close to the right side and pointed at the table with a thoughtful look. "This one space."

Having noticed the commotion – and because his questioning was over – Dr. Mantlo walked into the room. Sherlock looked up and immediately strolled up to him, addressing the owner of the house and pointing to the empty space on the right table. "Hey – something was here. What was it?"

Mantlo blinked, shaking his head. "I'm sorry?"

"Maybe this isn't the best time-"

Sherlock cut Joan off, straining over her to catch the doctor's attention again. "No, no, please, concentrate." She pointed towards the table again. "Something used to occupy that space. I need you to tell me what it was."

Mantlo turned to the table as his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Uh, it was an old... ring box. Amy's grandmother gave it to her. Why?"

For a moment, Sherlock stared intently at him before turning to Gregson with a frown. "You said there were also signs of a struggle in the master bedroom."

Gregson nodded and began to lead the way up the stairs. They were about to enter when Joan stopped Sherlock just before the door. "What is it?" she asked, confused because she wasn't seeing what the other woman was seeing. "Why is it so important that the kidnapper took a ring box?"

"Kidnappers don't take trophies," Sherlock said, moving past her to walk just a little behind Gregson. "Killers do."

"There's no body, genius," Abreu retorted.

"There's no blood on the front stoop or walk either," Sherlock shot back without even looking at him. "It's rather difficult not to leave any when you're abducting someone with an arterial wound, wouldn't you agree?" Turning to Gregson she gave him a meaningful look. "You're certain your men have been over every inch of this house?"

Gregson nodded. "Of course." Opening the door, he led them inside and the consultant immediately began to inspect the room scrutinising every detail as Captain Gregson narrated. "As you can see, there's, ah, struggle here."

He pointed to the tousled and bloodied sheets on the bed and the overturned armchair. Sherlock walked towards the furthest corner from the door and paused, turning around and holding her breath. Carefully, with her hands out as if she was balancing herself on a rope, she took several steps from the corner towards the others, gauging the floor. Releasing her breath, she turned to Gregson with a solemn expression. "She's in the safe room."

Gregson raised his head, confused. "What safe room?"

Sherlock turned and pointed towards the corner she inspected. "The one behind that wall."

Abreu rolled his eyes, though he looked more confused than annoyed. "The husband didn't say anything about a safe room."

"There's a slight angle to the floor in here. You can f—" Sherlock cut herself off and then crossed over to the flower pot on the coffee table and took out a decorative marble. "The extra weight of a safe room's steel reinforcements can cause the floor around it to decline slightly, creating a slope between one and five degrees." She let the marble gently on the floor, making sure that it would roll slowly towards the indicated wall. She followed it, before jumping ahead and feeling behind the bedside cabinet, looking for the secret switch.

Once she found it, she immediately pressed it and the sound of a door clicking made the other detective perk up. He took a step closer, Gregson frowning as the wall moved to reveal an opening to the safe room towards which all of them converged. They paused in the doorway as the marble rolled into the dark space and stopped, a distraction preventing it from rolling further.

Flicking the light switch on, Sherlock revealed a sight that made Joan gasp and turn away. Amy Dampier's body lied in a pull of her own blood, twisted unnaturally. Her eyes still wide open and dark marks around her neck.

Sherlock looked around the safe room sadly before focusing on the victim. "Sometimes I hate it when I'm right."

* * *

Mantlo sighed impatiently as Gregson stared at him and Abreu towered over him from the head of the table in the interrogation room. "For the last time, I loved my wife. I didn't hurt her! And before this moment I had no idea there was any safe room in my house!"

Gregson trained him with a disbelieving look. "You get why that's hard for us to believe, don't you?"

"The place was gutted before Amy and I moved in two years ago and she oversaw all the construction." Sherlock raised her phone and took a photo of the close-up of Mantlo's entwined hands on the table as the man rambled on.

The consultant always found watching suspects from behind the glass a little unnerving. The interrogation could either brake the case, or utterly crush it to dust – but what annoyed her was the wait.

There was something in his voice when he said he loved his wife. But then again, that wasn't a surprise. It was one of the reasons Sherlock didn't believe in marriage – sooner or later the 'love' is gone and more often than not one of the parties ends up dead. Inspecting the photograph she just took closer, she frowned. It didn't matter whether the man loved his wife or not – he didn't kill her. He physically couldn't have done it.

She lowered her phone. Detective Abreu was shaking his head with disbelief. "I'm sorry, but ah, are you saying she had it installed, but never told you?"

Joan turned to Sherlock and asked quietly, breaking the silence, "How do you do it?"

Sherlock didn't take her eyes off the interrogation. "Do what?"

Joan hesitated. "Guess things."

"I don't guess. I observe. And once I've observed, I deduce."

"You said you could tell from my hands that I used to be a surgeon."

"Hand," Sherlock corrected. "Singular, actually. Soft, no callouses. Also it smelled faintly of beeswax." She glanced at Joan who gave her a look of surprise, raising an eyebrow. "Many surgeons, as you know, use a beeswax cream to protect their hands from the dehydrating effects of repeated washing as well. You're no longer practicing, but old habits die hard. For as to why you gave up your medical career to become a companion, I'd wager that addiction claimed the life of someone close to you. And his or her death moved you to make drastic changes in your life. Am I close?"

"What about my father?"

Sherlock turned to her again, distracted by the change of topic. "What about him?"

"How did you know he had an affair?"

"Google," she said simply, catching Watson off-guard. At the look on her face, she added, "Well, not everything is deducible."

The door opened and Captain Gregson and Detective Abreu came in, the captain's hands in his pockets. Sherlock turned to them with clasped hands.

Abreu was rubbing his hands together as he spoke, not quite meeting her eyes. "Hey, uh, I just wanted to say thanks for helping out today. You… you got us our guy and, ah, we're grateful, Miss."

He looked equal parts embarrassed and awkward, holding his hand out for her to shake and Sherlock doubted he wanted to say those words, even if he was thankful for assistance. Gregson must have made him. So it was little trouble to shoot him down. She tried to ignore how much it pained her to have pointed them towards the wrong man. "Respectfully, Detective, I doubt that very much because I have a reason to believe that Richard Mantlo didn't kill his wife."

She ignored his hand and strode past him into the hall, the detective following her with a dumbfounded look on his face. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait— Come again?"

Sherlock stopped and waited for them to come out to the hallway before she stopped and addressed the detective. "Dr. Mantlo has girl's feet, or hadn't you noticed? He's a size eight if he's an inch. The bootprint on his front door was an eleven."

"So?" Abreu threw his arms out. "So he was smart. He wore bigger shoes to throw us off."

"Did he also wear bigger hands when he strangled his wife?" Sherlock jabbed.

Gregson crossed his arms, giving her a reprimanding look. "Holmes."

All the consultant did was show him the photo on her phone of the bruise marks left on the victim's neck. "Well these strangulation marks are indicative of a man much larger than Mantlo. Not just heavier, but— but taller. I'd estimate his height to be somewhere between six-foot-one, six-foot-three? Your M.E. will come to the same conclusion in a couple of hours. I'm delivering it now." She turned to Joan, asking to back her up. "You're a doctor, tell him I'm right."

"I'm not a doctor," Joan said grievously.

"_Were_ a doctor. Surely you haven't forgotten how bruising works?"

Why did she have to keep bringing that up? Joan released an annoyed sigh before glancing at the photo on the phone Sherlock was holding up. "Okay, yeah, sure. These hands do seem a little small for the bruise pattern, but—"

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore, turning to Gregson with great haste. "With your permission, Captain, I'd like a moment alone with Dr. Mantlo."

Abreu protested indignantly. "Captain! This is—"

Gregson nodded to Sherlock. "You've got two minutes."

Without waiting for anything else, Sherlock barged into the interrogation room and slammed a pen and a pad of paper in front of Mantlo. "Tall men in your life. I'd like a list." Mantle looked up, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

* * *

The first suspect on the list was Harrison Polk and although he welcomed them with open arms, he did seem reluctant to speak to them. They walked down the hospital hall where he worked as an administrator, Polk leading the way.

"Amy was a good person, but if you're here because you think I had something to do with her..."

"Dr. Mantlo said that you'd made a pass at her at a holiday party last year," Sherlock explained, observing his reaction carefully.

Polk stopped walking and turned to them, his tone annoyed. "Actually, no. I didn't. I asked her about all the plastic surgery she'd had."

That caught Sherlock's attention. "Plastic surgery?" she asked, intrigued.

"Okay, look. I helped plan a fundraiser for the hospital two years ago. That was before the surgeries. I know I still have the pictures."

He led them to his office and while he scrolled through his computer, Joan and Sherlock stood still, observing the room with their eyes. Joan spotted a shoebox on the chair – or more precisely, the size number: 11. She glanced at Sherlock and when she met her eyes, the consultant nodded at her observation.

"There." Polk turned the monitor so they could see the photograph on the screen. "That's a picture of Amy and Dr. Mantlo that I took that night. Okay? Tell me you wouldn't want to ask her why she did it."

Sherlock was silent and then looked up at the doctor, eyes calculating. "Tell me about the stalking charge brought against you two years ago."

"I asked my neighbour out." At first Polk sounded reluctant, but then he shrugged. "She overreacted."

Sherlock hummed and opened her mouth, ready to ask another question but Watson beat her to it. "Mr. Polk, can you tell us where you were last night?" Hesitating, she turned back to Polk who rolled his eyes.

"I was home. Alone. I know, not much of an alibi, but I don't care. Because I didn't do it."

* * *

Back at the Brownstone, Joan was getting ready for bed. She set one alarm clock on the dresser and plugged in another next to the bed in her room. The usual routine.

As she left the bathroom, lost in her thoughts, she paused, noticing something dripping from the ceiling and onto her shoulder. Lightly dabbing it with her fingers, she looked up to see honey dripping through a crack where the ceiling met the wall. She returned to her room only to put the bag on the floor and left to investigate.

Joan opened the door to the roof, immediately drawing her jumper closer around herself as the wind chilled her bones.

Sherlock was on the roof with her back to her.

"Um, did you know that honey was dripping through the ceiling?" Crossing her arms she approached Sherlock, surprised to see her sitting on a foldout chair in front of several bee houses.

"Yes, happens sometimes," Sherlock said, her eyes fixed on a point in the hive.

Joan leaned closer, squinting at the bees. "Uh, I take it that beekeeping is a hobby?"

"I'm writing a book," Sherlock said with a small smile. "Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen." When Joan turned to her incredulously, she tapped her temple. "Up here. I've just started chapter nineteen. Would you like to hear the last few paragraphs?"

Joan gave her a curious once-over, shaking her head. Sherlock was, what, in her mid-thirties? And she could count on one hand how many times she did something that resembled anything relatively normal. She didn't expect a consultant with the police – she didn't even know the job existed before then – to keep bees on the roof. But then again, she was a former drug addict, and Joan would take eccentric over violent and/or hysterical anytime.

Straightening up, she walked towards Sherlock, her eyes still on the bees. "Did you talk to the police about that scary administrator guy?"

Sherlock glanced at her. "I have not."

"But I thought—"

"Mr. Polk is a prat, no doubt, but his body language said sub, not dom. I don't see him having the berries to take another life," Sherlock reasoned, standing up and with one last look at the bees, she turned to face Joan. She rocked on her heels as they lapsed into a silence. The wind picked up again, but in her warm, patterned, woollen jumper and the quilted vest she didn't even feel it. Sherlock stared at Joan and then gave her a genuinely concerned look. "Why do you suppose you hate your job so much?"

"I don't hate my job."

"You have two alarm clocks. No one with two alarm clocks loves their job. Two alarm clocks means it's a chore for you to get up in the morning." Joan smirked and Sherlock smiled slowly, knowing she was getting to her even if the woman was set on defiance. "You don't hate what I do, though. That much was obvious when you talked to Mr. Polk. It was the look on your face. I imagine it was the same look you wore to the O.R. when you were still a surgeon."

"You're wrong," Joan shook her head, but she was suppressing a smile.

Sherlock looked at her for a moment before stuffing her hands in the pockets of her vest. "I know my father secured your services for the next... six weeks?" Joan nodded in confirmation. "The simple truth is I don't need you. I'm finished with drugs. I won't be using them again. My advice? Take a six-week holiday." She leaned forward and wiggled her eyebrows. "I promise I won't tell Papa."

* * *

The next morning, Joan woke up to sunlight streaming in through the windows. She rolled over to check the time on the alarm clock and upon realising that it had been unplugged, jumped to her feet. The alarm clock on the dresser was also meddled with, batteries taken out. Confused, she walked over to her bed to check the time on her phone. 9:50 am. And below it, one single message flashed on the screen.

_SHERLOCK: Police Station_

Sighing in exasperation, she stalked towards the shower and forty-seven minutes later, she was walking towards a room deep in the station, passing a uniformed officer on her way.

She found Sherlock poring over files, wearing an attire of suit trousers and three layers of shirts, each darker than the one before, her black coat slung over the chair.

She stopped outside the metal gate. "I'm gonna need your saliva now."

Sherlock looked up from her work and smiled brightly, mockingly checking her watch. "Ten thirty-seven. I take back everything I said last night. You obviously love your job. Couldn't wait to get started this morning."

As Joan rolled her eyes, pulling the drug test out of her bag, Sherlock opened the door, a smile still pulling at her lips. Except instead of looking smug, this time she looked excited, one side of her hair falling into her eyes and other tucked behind an ear.

"Open your mouth so I can swab it. If you're on anything, the strip on the cup will turn blue." She opened the cap to the drug test, all along fixing the woman with an annoyed look.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice. "I have -" She was interrupted by Joan sticking the test into her mouth, swabbing it and putting it back in the cup. Sherlock licked her lips and tried again. "I have a new theory about our killer. I think he may have struck at least once before. I, who love what I do, woke up early. I couldn't stop thinking about the ring box he stole from Amy Dampier's living room."

"You said it was some kind of trophy," Joan said, not really paying attention as she shook the drug test.

"And you know what flavour of killer takes trophies, don't you?" Joan didn't answer, but her look said she did. "Serial. Souvenirs help them differentiate between victims. It occurred to me that if Amy wasn't our killer's first, then there might be other cases in common." While Joan continued to focus on the test, she reached over to the desk and pulled out a photograph of a woman's neck with finger-shaped bruises, holding it up so high it almost covered her face. She wanted Joan to look at it. "Eileen Renfro." Joan glanced at the photo and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Always with the gruesome photographs. "Savagely beaten and strangled by an intruder in her Bronx home two years ago. He took a jewellery box on his way out, but left behind a size eleven footprint."

Joan read the measure on the drug test, breaking the news with a tight smile. "Drug-free. Congratulations."

"Especially striking are the physical similarities between her and Amy. Both were curvaceous, with long red hair."

Joan put her hands on her hips, giving up as she gazed at the photograph. "You think the killer has a type?"

Sherlock's photograph nodded for her as she tilted it forward. "The one significant difference in the cases? Eileen Renfro survived her attack."

* * *

Eileen Renfro looked at the photograph of Amy Dampier, barely giving it a second's glance before shaking her head and putting it back down on the table. "I'm sorry, I can see why you think it might be the same guy. I just don't think I can help you."

Sherlock, resting on the back of the chair in front of the woman, linked her hands together. "We know from the police report that the man who assaulted you wore a mask. That doesn't mean you can't help us identify him. Did he say anything to you?"

"No," Eileen said reluctantly, shaking her head. "I came in through my front door and he was just... there."

Sherlock paused, practically _smelling_ the lie. "Did he have a particular scent?" Joan shot her a warning look.

Eileen fiddled with the cross dangling from her neck, thrown off by the question. "I… I don't think so."

"Was he tall? Short? Somewhere in between?" Sherlock raised her eyebrows expectantly, earning her another disturbed look from Joan.

"I don't know," Eileen replied curtly, angrier this time. "I mean, he was on top of me so quickly. His hands were around my throat."

"And what about the mask?

Eileen looked up sharply, her fingers freezing. "What about it?"

"Was it ski? Mexican wrestling? Paper plate?" the consultant offered.

"Ski."

"Good— E— Excellent!" Sherlock grinned and walked around the chair, pushing it closer to the woman and sitting down, leaning forward as close as she could with the coffee table separating them. "So you got a good look at his eyes." She was stammering with excitement, her arms and hands shaky as she extended them towards the redhead. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but a— a strangler can literally not be an arm's length from his stranglee, can he?" She tensed her fingers as if she was holding something in front of Eileen's face, the woman's eyes widening.

"Miss Holmes," Joan called testily, agitated. Sherlock's forwardness surprised her - she was a woman too, didn't she see what her words and actions were doing or was she that apathetic? She could trigger a traumatic response. Eileen was blinking rapidly, her eyes flickering from Sherlock's hands up to her face as she struggled to get words out.

Sherlock didn't take much notice of either of them, only having ears for her own theories. "That's what, two— two and a half feet? I— I'm twice that difference from you now, I can see that your eyes are a lovely brown," she observed, lowering her arms and tilting her head to the side.

Eileen licked her lips, her hands fiddling with her cross again. "I think I'd like you to leave now."

"Why? 'Cause I know that you're lying?"

"Miss Holmes!" Joan repeated, louder.

"But she is," Sherlock turned to her, pointing to Eileen Renfro and motioning to her necklace. She continued speaking, her voice growing more and more erratic, her eyes flickering between the other two women. "You can tell by the crucifix. You fiddle with it every time I ask you a question. It's— it's pacifying behaviour. It's just elementary, haptic communication— just— read a book, would you?" She rambled, ending up making Eileen flinch when she yelled the last two words. "She _did_ see her attacker's face."

"Sherlock!"

"I think she even might know who he is!"

Eileen gritted her teeth. "Get out."

Sherlock turned to her in surprise. "You realize that because you protected him two years ago that you have the blood of an innocent woman on your hands, don't you? Perhaps you'd like to go for two, or three, or four—"

"That's enough!" Joan silenced her, standing up with her hands raised, palms facing forward. Sherlock blinked, wide-eyed, looking like a kicked puppy. "You're done here. Go wait in the car." For a moment, Sherlock looked like she was going to protest, but then wordlessly stood up and stomped out of the room with squared shoulders, slamming the door behind her.

"What a bitch," Eileen breathed bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut as she caught her breath. Joan sat back down, her hands on her knees and offered the girl a sympathetic look.

After a brief moment of silence, Eileen licked her lips, and told her everything.

When Joan walked out into the street some time later, Sherlock was leaning against Joan's car, waiting for her impatiently as she bit her nails. Upon seeing Watson ahead, she moved to stuff her hands in the pockets of her coat and then reconsidered, crossing them over her chest instead.

Joan briskly walked up to her, her heels clicking against the pavement, and leaned against the car next to her.

"The name of the man who attacked her is Peter Saldua. He was her brother's best friend growing up. His father was abusive so her parents took him in his senior year of high school. Eileen heard from her brother that he works for florists in Chelsea."

As Sherlock took all of that in, looking disgruntled and a little impressed, she shifted on her feet, a smug expression crossed her face as she turned to Watson. "I knew it. I knew that if I started a row in there you'd come to her defence and if you came to her defence, she might very well tell you the truth."

Joan let out a silent laugh and leaned against the car with her hand, turning to the consultant with a sarcastic look. "You are so full of it."

Sherlock pulled a face, barely masking the mischief behind it, as she raised her phone to her ear, dialling tone ringing in her ears before a voice picked up.

"_This is Gregson."_

"Captain Gregson, Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock hurriedly said into the phone and Joan rolled her eyes. "I'm calling because I believe I've uncovered the name of a strong suspect in the murder of Amy Dampier."

"_Name wouldn't be Peter Saldua by any chance, would it?"_

Sherlock hesitated in surprise. "How did you know?"

_"Because I'm at his house and I'm looking at him right now."_

That made Sherlock even more confused. "A- Are you saying he's in police custody?"

_"Technically, yeah. He's all ours."_

* * *

Captain Gregson led Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson inside Peter Saldua's home, the entire house still crawling with uniformed officers. "Mailman saw the body through the window, calls 911, said he thought someone on the inside had killed himself. Turns out he was right." He stopped and moved to the side to reveal a body inside a blue bag being lifted onto a gurney. There was a pull of blood on the kitchen tiles. "The gun was still in Saldua's hand when we got here. Watch the blood splatter." He warned as he stepped around it and pointed to the table, making room for Sherlock to join him. "We found the ring box from Amy Dampier's home, right there."

Sherlock walked past him, the corners of her lips pulled downwards as she inspected the wall in front of her, covered in candid pictures of Amy Dampier.

Abreu was speaking to the back of her head, holding something with a pair of latex gloves, but only Joan was paying attention, remaining by the doorway outside the kitchen. "Turns out Mantlo and his wife used the florist that Saldua worked for. He ordered fresh flowers to the house once a week. Saldua was the guy who delivered them. Explains why she would've let him in the other night."

She glanced at him, nodding to show that she had heard – well, she had heard _most_ of what he said – and then inclined her head towards the overturned washing machine, clothes spilling out. "What happened over there?"

Detective Abreu shrugged, already moving to leave the room to look for a plastic evidence bag for the item in his hands. "Mixed his colours with his whites, who knows? He was a nutball."

Sherlock blinked, and then took notice of a phone charger on the table, an evidence number tag beside it. "Did you already take his phone?"

"Hasn't turned up yet. But it will," Gregson assured her, leaving the kitchen. Sherlock turned back to the mood-board, scanning the contents of the shelf beside it. Then, abruptly, she turned to the window ledge above the sink and picked up one of medicine bottles, checking the label. Xanax.

Joan was looking through the pictures when she broke the silence. "You wanted to be the one who found him, didn't you?"

Sherlock stiffly placed the medicine bottle back in its place. "I don't do what I do for credit."

Joan glanced at her over her shoulder. "Then why do you do it?"

Sherlock didn't answer, leaving the room without another word.

* * *

_"I would like to thank the police again for finding the man who killed my wife. I would like to see them stand trial..."_

Richard Mantlo was speaking to the reporters but his voice was nothing more than background noise to Sherlock. She was seated on a footstool, papers in her hands and piles of files on the desk and the chair in front of her. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, but most escaped the hold, framing her face. On the wall opposite the fireplace, the consultant had taped case evidence and photographs of Amy Dampier.

Something was wrong. The pieces didn't fit together.

Well, they did, but parts were missing. Chiselled away.

"She had her mole removed when she changed her look. It doesn't make any sense. She loved that mole. Before her surgery she turned her head to feature it whenever her picture was taken," she said when Joan walked into the room, picking up her laptop from where Sherlock moved it out of the way earlier on. She raised an eyebrow at the wall before sitting down at one of the desks, clearing it to make space for the laptop and then opening it. "Where did you get those photographs?"

"I reached out to Amy's friends via her Facebook page." Joan looked surprised, but turned to her laptop when it turned on. "Harrison Polk was right. She was as beautiful before her surgery as she was after. So why bother? What was the point?" Sherlock stood up with frustration and walked over to Watson, waving the phone records in her face. "Another thing. Saldua's phone records indicate he used his cell phone constantly. And yet, three days ago, he just stopped. Didn't make a single call, didn't send a single text. Why? His bank statements, meanwhile, list several checks made out to Dr. Roland Jessip, psychologist. He seems worth a talking to, no? No! 'Cause he dropped dead of a coronary in 2010." She angrily placed some of the papers on Joan's laptop and dropped the rest angrily on the floor.

"The Amy Dampier case is over," Joan stood up, holding the papers in hand and walking over to another table, moving papers aside. "You helped solve it."

"Ah, but something's off. I feel it," Sherlock muttered, linking her hands behind her head. Noticing Joan turn to her and hold something up that she had printed out, she pursed her lips. "What's that?"

"I got us tickets to the opera tonight. To celebrate." Sherlock raised her eyebrows, offering her a skeptical look. "When your father hired me, he mentioned something about you liking it, so I—"

A sarcastic laugh left Sherlock's throat. "I went to Le Grand Macabre one when I was nine, now I'm a buff!" She walked over to the kitchen, sighed and then rummaged through the dishes. She pulled out a jar of dried fruit and stalked back into the room, throwing a couple into her mouth.

"I'm worried about you," Joan admitted. Sherlock turned to her with raised eyebrows, putting the jar on the desk next to her computer. "I think you're making things more complicated than they really are and it tells me that you're struggling."

"I don't struggle with anything," Sherlock defended herself, talking with her mouth full. "If you've been paying attention over the last few days. I've been right about everything." She turned back to the computer, violently shaking the mouse when she saw that the screen had turned black.

"Actually, you haven't," Joan corrected her. Sherlock turned to her, waiting for her to continue. "The day we met you deduced that I gave up being a surgeon to become a companion because I had lost someone close to me. The truth is—"

Sherlock groaned out and rolled her eyes, moving past Joan and sitting down at the desk, rubbing her hands over her trousers to wipe them clean. "Truth is, that you made a mistake during a surgery that cost a patient his life." Joan stared, biting her lip. When she didn't say anything, Sherlock placed her elbows on the papers before her and elaborated. "It takes years of study to become a surgeon, not to mention tremendous ego. Surgeons don't just leave to become addict sitters, they're forced out. And they're only forced out if they commit the sin of malpractice." She wrung her hands together, not daring to meet Joan's eyes even when she glanced up at her. "I knew it would be a sore subject, so I made up the bit about the friend to... spare your feelings."

Joan took in a deep breath. "That was very big of you. How do you know the patient died?" Sherlock's hands curled into fists and she looked like she was resisting very hard not to explode. "How do you know I didn't just leave him paralyzed, or in a coma?"

"The parking ticket! The one you had in your bag." Sherlock slammed her hands on the table and stood up, rubbing her temples as she spoke rapidly and walked around Joan so that her back was turned to her. "It was—" She sighed loudly and hesitated, before turning around, no longer holding back. "You incurred it two weeks ago, near the corner of 86th and 3rd. The only thing there is Carver Cemetery. Obviously, you were visiting a grave. Not a parent's grave, of course, Google indicates that they're both alive and well. Siblings? No. Carver is a pauper's field. The picture that you keep on your phone of Mum and Dad says that they're well-to-do. No sibling of yours would be interred in a place like that. The place doesn't even have a proper parking area, hence the ticket. So." Joan's head snapped to her, but that only served to make her more agitated. "A surgeon who is no longer a surgeon, a parking violation incurred outside a poor man's cemetery, and two parents who are as monied as they are alive, run it all up, what does it say?" She threw her arms up, slamming them back down against her legs. "You were visiting the grave of the man that you let die on your operating table."

"It's so incredible, the way that you can... solve people just by looking at them," Joan began, giving Sherlock a level look.

"Thank you," Sherlock said with a nod, though it sounded bitter.

Joan continued, her tone still soft but harsher. "I noticed you don't have any mirrors around here."

Sherlock's breath hitched in her throat and her eyes widened. She raised her chin in a challenge. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"I think it means you know a lost cause when you see one." Sherlock stared emptily in front of her, Joan's words echoing in her ears as the woman walked past her, gathering her things. "Tomorrow I'll arrange for a new companion. Tonight, I've got plans."

Sherlock listened to her leave the Brownstone with a set jaw. Slowly, as if her legs were weighed down by stones, she crossed over to one of the desks and attempted to collect herself.

Then, after a short moment, she swiped all the papers to the ground. Turning and breathing heavily, she paced backwards and forwards before her eyes fell on the papers she had thrown to the ground earlier. The cell phone bills.

Scrambling for her phone, she called the one man she knew would undoubtedly still be at work. Captain Gregson.

* * *

Holmes had hoped that by the time she reached the bar, her anger would have evaporated. She was wrong.

Sherlock entered the warm building, glaring at the cheerful music drifting from the stage. People looked up when the door slammed after her, but didn't pay her any more attention than that as she stiffly walked towards Captain Gregson who spotted her and waved slightly, perched on a bar stool by the counter.

When she reached him, he closed the file he was looking through and put it in front of the consultant. "Here you go." His eyes were filtered by glass. "Everything your dead shrink had on my dead strangler."

Holmes liked him when he was wearing glasses – he looked older, but it suited him. And other detectives were a little less keen to argue with him when he glared at them through the frames.

Sherlock flipped through the file and Gregson interlinked his fingers, resting his hands on the counter. "You can thank me."

"It's dusty."

"Well, the guy's been dead almost two years," Gregson shrugged, taking off his glasses and putting them in his jacket's pocket. "His widow had all his stuff in storage. You're lucky she even let me take a look." He finished his drink and asked for another, a little disgruntled at the woman's lack of enthusiasm.

"According to this, Saldua never told him about the attack on Eileen Renfro", she pointed out a paragraph on the sheet of paper. "It says he had an obsession with redheaded women and a tendency towards violence."

Gregson listened, glancing at the barman as he poured another shot. Then he motioned towards his drink. "You want something?"

Sherlock ignored him, reading out from the file. "'Mr. Saldua, now obsessed with his own recovery, has taken to recording our sessions with his phone so he can listen to them again and again.'" She turned to Gregson with a hopeful look. "Has the phone turned up yet?"

"No." Sherlock looked disappointed and Gregson shrugged. "I'm starting to think he lost it." He stood up. "I gotta take a leak. Keep an eye on this coat, will you?" Sherlock watched him leave through the back door, closing her eyes in exasperation. She was about to turn back to flicking through the late doctor's notes when the television distracted her."

The boxer on the screen was yelling at the camera, most of his words unintelligible.

_"... Your ass is mine! You're both dead!"_

For some reason the look in his eyes, reminded her of the overturned washing machine in Peter Saldua's house and the large dent in the corner, littered with bootprints.

"Rage," she muttered, her eyes widening with realisation, her fingers tapping on the counter. "He felt rage."

She fled the bar, Gregson's coat forgotten.

* * *

Joan Watson watched the opera with unrivalled attention, a small smile pulling at her lips. She didn't notice Sherlock, stalking down the side, scanning the crowd for her.

"Watson!" she whispered sharply, stopping when she finally noticed her. "Watson!"

Everyone in the aisle turned to look at her, throwing her glares. Sherlock only had eyes for Joan, waving her hand for her to come outside. Joan shook her head.

She thought that would make the younger woman leave, but instead Sherlock started to move past the people in the aisle, audience members protesting as she squeezed past them. In her many layers and her heavy coat, she managed to block the view for a good few seconds for everyone she passed.

"Excuse me... excuse me..." She mumbled, not meaning in the least. Joan stared at her with wide eyes in disbelief before shaking her head. Sherlock settled in the empty seat next to her and leaned close so she could whisper. "That Peter Saldua felt rage the night he killed Amy Dampier. Now, he had some measure of control—"

Joan was facing forward, her eyes fixed on the female opera singer. "I'm not here right now. I don't see you, I don't hear you—"

"Shall I speak up?" Sherlock asked loudly, attracting the atention of surrounding audience members who scowled at her. Joan glanced around, embarassed. Sherlock continued, more softly. "He had some measure of control with Eileen Renfro, but not with her. Why?" Joan slowly pressed her palm against her face, not believing that any of this was happening. Sherlock reached into her pocket for her phone. "Tell me, what exactly does a Xanax tablet look like?"

Joan gave up. "Small, white, ovular, why?

When Sherlock dialed a number and put the phone to her ear, Joan threw her a dirty look. Sherlock ignored it, speaking into the phone when the NYPD reception picked up. "Detective Abreu, please." A woman shushed her and Sherlock rolled her eyes. "'Shh!' yourself! They're not even on key."

Joan face-palmed again.

_"Abreu."_

She never thought she'd actually be glad to hear his voice. She was planning to pickpocket his badge next time she saw him but now she decided against it. "Sherlock Holmes."

"_Make it quick, Princess. I was just on my way out."_

Well, she won't waste any of his precious time, then. "The pill vial from Saldua's desk. I know it was taken into evidence. I need you to find it for me."

_"Hold on... Okay, I got it. Now what?"_

"The pills inside should be white and ovular, but they are not, aren't they? They're round and pink."

There was a pause. She chewed on her fingers as she waited.

"_How did you know?"_

Sherlock hummed and hung up, turning to Joan with urgency. "I need a ride. Right now."

Joan couldn't believe this. "I'm in the middle of something."

Sherlock chewed on her lip and then sighed in defeat. "You were right the other day. About Eileen Renfro. I had no idea that she would respond to you the way she did. I just told you I did because I was embarrassed I lost my temper. Would I have gotten to the truth some other way? Well of course, but... you got me there faster." She paused and took in a deep breath. "It just frustrates me, sometimes, when they don't cooperate. Things would be so much easier if they just told the truth. Far less enjoyable, yes, but easier." Joan threw Sherlock a pointed look and the consultant stopped rambling, wincing. "Yes, where was I... Please, Watson." She gave her what she thought was her earnest expression. "How quickly can you get to Sanbridge Hospital?"

* * *

It was raining, and as Sherlock climbed out of Joan's car, her hair stuck to her face. She didn't bother brushing it back, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her coat and running after Dr. Mantlo who was walking up the steps to the hospital.

The moment she caught up, she began to walk beside him quickly, words pouring out of her mouth at record speed. "You were Peter Saldua's last therapist, weren't you? You started treating him, what, eight months ago?" The doctor was surprised to see her but he did listen, stopping so they could talk face to face. "Probably just a few weeks before you talked your wife into all that plastic surgery."

Mantlo's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"Saldua wanted to fix himself," Sherlock continued. As they rain picked up she was somewhat aware of Joan standing a little behind her, listening intently. "Jessip was his first attempt, you were his second. It was quite a bit of luck, that. You, a man with a wife you wanted dead, stumbling across him. A man with an obsessive personality and a history of violence, hmm? The only problem was, of course, Amy didn't fit his victim profile, did she? Well you accounted for that by pressuring her to alter her appearance so she did.

"Miss Holmes... right?" The man's eyes narrowed as he recalled Sherlock visiting his house. "We met the other day?"

"Hmm," Sherlock made a grunt of agreement and the doctor looked away as she continued her onslaught. "The pill vial from Saldua's home came from you. Sample from the hospital, no doubt. Almost impossible to trace. He thought he was taking a tranquilizer, but he wasn't, was he? He was taking a steroid. You were whipping him into a killing frenzy. A frenzy that made him more and more confused, more violent. More likely to give into his terrible compulsions."

"I never even heard of the name 'Peter Saldua' until the police told me he was the man who killed Amy."

"Bollocks!" At Sherlock's outburst, the doctor rolled his eyes. "I imagine that you took to meeting at odd places at odd times, so you'd never be seen together. Then, when the time was right, you took advantage of his job as a delivery man to place him in Amy's orbit. You arranged for flowers to be sent to the house once a week, because you needed him to see her. You needed him to become obsessed with her. You loaded him like a weapon. Then you pointed him squarely at your own wife."

"You're insane."

Sherlock spluttered. "No, he was insane, Doctor! And you took advantage. And then after you'd murdered him, you made it look like a suicide, you took his phone. Why? Well, because he'd taken to recording your sessions, as well. Problem? Of course not. Killing him was always part of the plan. You'd just take the phone after you'd done the deed."

Mantlo nodded and then blinked, looking to the side. "Hypothetically, Miss. Holmes, a man wants out of his marriage to a very wealthy wife. He knows that during the course of their relationship he signed a prenupital agreement that gives him nothing if he leaves her and a living trust that gives him everything if she dies. Hypothetically, wouldn't that man be smarter to look for a way to trigger the clauses in the second document as opposed to the first?" With a nonchalant expression, the man turned and walked away. All Sherlock could do was stare at the spot that he previous occupied, seething with anger.

Joan walked up to her, wiping the rain from her face with the back of her gloved hand. "What did he say?"

Sherlock clenched her jaw, turning to watch as Dr. Richard Mantlo disappeared inside the hospital. "He said that he did it."

Joan blinked. "Well, we have to tell the police!" she insisted.

Sherlock shook her head, looking crestfallen. "No point. We don't have any proof and he knows it." Then she looked to be deliberating something and held her hand up, palm upwards. "I need your car keys."

"What? Why?"

"Car keys!" Sherlock roared and Joan dropped the keys into her hand, startled.

"What—"

Sherlock was already walking away, stalking towards Joan's car while she watched in puzzlement. The consultant got in angrily, starting it and gripping the wheel tightly as she slammed down on the gas pedal. The wheels squeaked as she sped across the parking lot and, before Joan's eyes, smashed into Mantlo's car.

Both of the vehicles were completely wrecked, shattered glass and metal everywhere. The sirens were blaring and Joan stared at the scene wide-eyed.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, calming herself. "Yes," she nodded to herself through clenched teeth. "Better."

* * *

Surprisingly, despite not wearing the seat belt, Sherlock got away with little more than some cuts on her face. Good thing she never really cared for such things.

She looked up from inspecting her hands when she heard a jingle of keys and the turn of a lock. Joan approached the glass and Sherlock nodded, collecting herself, standing up and walking towards the front of the window.

Joan didn't really know how to react. Sherlock looked both proud and apologetic. She picked up the phone and held it to her ear and the woman opposite mirrored her actions.

"I'm... sorry," Sherlock began, actually looking like she truly meant it. "N- Not just for your car, but for the way I spoke to you earlier. I knew the death of your patient would be a sore subject, I just—"

"Couldn't help yourself," Joan finished for her. Sherlock looked down before meeting her eyes, offering her a small, guilty smile. She didn't deny it. "Yeah, I'm starting to see how that's kind of a thing with you."

Sherlock moved her jaw and swallowed. "I assume you've told my father about what happened tonight." She nodded resignedly and gave Joan a small, sad smile. "I'm going to miss that brownstone."

"Actually, you're not." Sherlock blinked. "I spoke with him, and since what you did at the hospital had nothing to do with drugs, he's agreed to give you another chance."

Sherlock's eyes widened and she bit back a smile, rocking on her heels. "You've decided to stay on as my companion, haven't you?" Joan shifted on her feet and let out a sigh. "You never would have agreed if you hadn't." She couldn't hold back the smile that time and it nearly split her face in half. "I- I'm very pleased, Watson. Not just for myself, of course, but for you. I happen to think that there's some hope for you as an investigator."

"I want you to let me in on the rest of the plan," Joan revealed her terms. Sherlock stared at blankly. "To get Mantlo. I know you wouldn't have wrecked my car unless it was part of some elaborate—" At Sherlock's grimace, Joan looked down with a nod, a flicker if disappointment in her eyes. "Temper tantrum. Right." She looked up with renewed confidence and proposition something else, "In that case, I want you to tell me about London."

Sherlock evaded the question with a shrug. "Big place... lots of rain.

"I want you to tell me about what happened to you in London."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the side. "Why's it so important to you?"

"Because if I'm going to stay with you, I need to know everything."

"Actually, you don't _need_ to know anything," Sherlock corrected, standing her ground. "Other than I am a recovering addict. You want to know about London because you think it will connect us in a more meaningful way. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have meaningful connections." Joan looked down and smiled – the action that unsettled Sherlock more than she wanted to admit. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because now I know it was a man." As an afterthought, she added, "or a woman."

Sherlock's hesitation was enough proof that she hit a nerve. "What makes you say that?"

"You're trying too hard," Joan narrowed her eyes. "Just like you were the other day with that tattoo guy. All that 'sex is repellent' crap. You _can_ connect to people. It just frightens you."

After a pause, Sherlock blinked. "My bail hearing is at nine tomorrow. I trust I'll see you there." Joan nodded and they simultaneously hung up their phones.

Sherlock's gaze followed Joan as she left, her eyes empty.

* * *

A part of Joan knew she should be in bed, to wake up early for the morning's hearing. But an invisible force pulled her towards the study room.

She walked over to one of the desks and after she turned on the light, rummaged through a couple of files when her eyes caught sight of the files littering the floor.

Not surprised in the least, Joan stepped over to the mess and began to clean it up, pausing when a certain file in particular caught her attention.

She picked it up and walked over to the desk, holding it up to the desk lamp.

Staring at it intently, she plucked one of the photographs of Saldua's house from the wall and compared the two pieces of evidence.

Slowly, her lips spread into a curious smile.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, still in the clothes from the night before, exited the courthouse with her bottom lip between her teeth.

She hadn't slept the entire night, her eyes were red and there were bags under her eyes. She was used to all-nighters, but it didn't mean her body liked it. Her hair lied flat. She needed a shower. When she met Joan at the bottom of the stairs, there was a stark contrast between their appearances.

Watson, the personification of finely dressed order, and Holmes, the dishevelled consultant detective.

Sherlock raised her chin and offered her a small smile. "You're late, Miss Watson. The barrister was rubbish."

"I need to show you something." Joan held out a folder and at first Sherlock hesitated but, from an encouraging look from Joan, took it in her hands. "I need to show you something. This is Peter Saldua's medical file. Look under the allergies heading."

With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock flicked through the file. Under 'Respirotary Allergies," the 'other' category was marked. Next to it: _'RICE ALLERGY'_.

Joan flipped through the rest of the papers and pulled out a photograph of Saldua's kitchen, putting it on top. On a rack amongst jars and cans, sat a large bag of rice. "Weird, right?"

Sherlock gave her a pleased look. "No, actually, not even a little."

That shower would have to wait.

* * *

Dr. Richard Mantlo sat inside Captain Gregson's office with his eyes closed, waiting to address him about the damage that Sherlock Holmes's riotous temper tantrum that had taken place the previous night.

"Dr Mantlo," Gregson greeted and the doctor opened his eyes, standing up to shake his hand. "Sorry about the wait. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to apologize face-to-face for what happened last night." He moved around the desk and sat in his office chair.

Mantlo lowered himself and shifted in his own seat, looking at the captain levelly. "I can't promise it'll change my mind about suing the department over what your consultant did to my car, but it's a start."

"There is just, ah, one thing I wanted to ask you," Gregson nodded in understanding, reclining in his chair. "Did you ever treat Peter Saldua as a patient?"

Mantlo frowned, "You have a funny way of saying you're sorry, Captain."

"It's a simple question, Doctor."

Mantlo turned away with a sigh, slightly shaking his head. "No. I never treated Peter Saldua, I never even met the man." Gregson nodded again, having expected that answer. "Now, if that's it, I am late for an appointment with my attorney..." Mantlo began to rise, checking his watch.

"Detective!" When Gregson called out towards the door, Mantlo looked at him in surprise before turning back to the door to see Abreu, Holmes and Watson enter the office.

He turned to Captain Gregson impatiently, sitting back down. "You know you're just digging yourself deeper, putting this woman in the same room with me?"

"Dr. Mantlo." Sherlock ignored his warning, flipping through the file in her hands before placing it open in front of the man opposite Captain Gregson. "This is a medical form completed by Peter Saldua for another of his doctors."

Richard Mantlo sighed in exasperation. "I told you before, Miss. Holmes, I was never one of Peter Saldua's doctors—"

Sherlock interrupted him and took a step back, proudly indicating towards Watson with her hands. "My associate Miss Watson was perusing it last night when she very astutely noticed that Saldua had a rather strong allergy to rice."

"This is ridiculous."

"Hm. As I was saying, Miss Watson noticed Saldua's allergy to rice, so you can imagine her confusion when she remembered seeing a sack of the stuff sitting on one of his shelves."

"We also found a credit card receipt that showed that he had bought it exactly three days before his death," Joan piped in.

"Odd that, right?" Sherlock raised her eyebrows, fidgeting with her fingers excitedly. "Him going to the store and buying the one thing he's allergic to. Odder still, it was the same day he stopped using his cell phone. First, I thought that was by choice. Then I remembered the overturned washing machine."

Mantlo reclined in his chair and rested one of his arms over it, scratching the back of his neck. "What does a bag of rice and an overturned washing machine have to do with anything?

Sherlock chewed on her lip and then sat down next to Mantlo, leaning in close. "I was wrong the other day when I accused you of taking Saldua's phone after you had murdered him. You wanted to take it, but you couldn't, could you, because you couldn't find it. He laundered it, you see. Left it in his pocket when he put his trousers in the wash. By the time he realized, it was too late. The phone that he'd turned into a— a virtual library of his therapy sessions was no longer functional. Furious with himself and suffering the effects of what he couldn't possibly have known was steroid intoxication, he destroyed the washer in a fit of rage. And then he went to the nearest grocer's and purchased a bag of rice." Mantlo laughed, finding Sherlock's theory absurd. Sherlock let a small smile flicker on her face before continued with her explanation. "Rice, as you're apparently not aware, is a natural desiccant. It can be used to absorb moisture from electronic devices that have been immersed in water. Well we went to Saldua's home this morning, and it was examined, this bag of rice. You'll never guess what we found inside." Sherlock, surprisingly modest, held up a phone. She flipped it open and pressed a button, holding it up as a voice recording played.

_"Her name is Amy. Um… When I see her, I get these feelings. I... Please, Dr. Mantlo, you need to help me. You need to tell me how to stop myself from murdering her; I don't— hurt her..."_

On the recording, Saldua began to cry. There was a brief moment of silence, before a second voice joined him.

_It's okay, Peter, it's... It's okay. I'm here for you. Let's try upping your meds, see where that leads us."_

Mantlo, realising that he had been cornered and found out, could do nothing more than turn away from them.

* * *

"Yes!" Joan clapped her hands excitedly, cheering as a batter hit a home run.

Sherlock stared at the baseball game on the screen blankly. "Can we please go to dinner now?" She almost begged. She was starving, there was not a single bite to eat at the Brownstone and she was _starving_.

Joan turned to her, giving her an incredulous look. She had to tilt her head so her head wouldn't be obscured by the baseball cap. "It's the bottom of the ninth. The Mets are within one and no one is out." Sherlock let out a pained sound and Watson shook her head, turning back to the screen. "Okay, don't look at me like that. You said you were going to watch with me to make up for last night."

Sherlock sat dejectedly on the chair, her arms hanging loosely over the edges. Her stomach rumbled. "That was before I got hungry."

"Yeah, well, just because you don't understand something doesn't mean it isn't awesome, okay?" Joan threw her a pointed look and a fake smile.

Sherlock sighed, sitting up. "Actually, Miss Watson, I'm quite familiar with the American pastime. The other addicts at Hemdale would often gather in the common room to watch the matches on the telly."

"They're not matches," Joan corrected, throwing her a short glare. "They're games."

"Truth be told, I find the science of the sport quite fascinating. All of the statistical analysis, all of the strategy. So, if you'll allow me to save us both a little time..." She leaned forward and studied the game intently while Joan rolled her eyes. "Pop-up to center, intentional walk, game end in double-play. Final score: Reds of Cincinnati three, Metropolitans of New York two."

She sat back up while Joan shook her head in disbelief. "Yeah right, nice try."

Sherlock just nodded, standing up. "I'll meet you at the door," she said before leaving the room and walking down the stairs and into the hallway, where she put on her coat while Joan finished the game.

Joan stared in surprise when the first of Sherlock's deductions came true. "No! Damn!" Then she stomped her foot in frustration and rose to her feet, resting against the back of the armchair, biting her lip.

When the end result turned out to be exactly as Sherlock said it would, Joan threw her baseball cap onto the armchair and turned the television off, sulking as she made her way down the stairs at the bottom of which, Sherlock was patiently waiting.

She didn't say anything, simply holding up Watson's coat and helping her into it. Watson didn't complain, simply freeing her hair when her coat was placed over her shoulders.

They moved out through the front door and for a moment, Sherlock hesitated, before turning off the light in the hallway, with a smile on her face.

* * *

**A/N: So there. Not sure how well it turned out, but there it is. Yes, I am aware there are probably lots of spelling/grammar mistakes (I checked it best I can and I hope that as I uploaded it to doc manager, nothing went screwy). As I said, not sure whether this will be a thing, but I'm relatively okay with it as it stands.**


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